


a taker and a giver

by ceserabeau



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Emotional Manipulation, M/M, Painplay, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-06
Updated: 2015-03-06
Packaged: 2018-03-16 14:08:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,768
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3491207
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ceserabeau/pseuds/ceserabeau
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Arthur opens his mouth to say <i>no</i> and <i>leave me alone</i>, but Eames kisses him quickly and steals the words right from his lips.</p>
            </blockquote>





	a taker and a giver

**Author's Note:**

> Title from _Found You Out_ by Sir Sly. This was meant to be a remix of my other work, [love is all that's left to lose](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3484859), but it didn't really turn out the way I planned.

Eames comes back in the winter. His shadow falls across Arthur as he drinks coffee in the park, and when Arthur looks up he’s grinning, teeth glinting in the cold glare of the sun.

“It’s been a while, darling,” he says, and his voice is the same as it was six months ago. “How have you been?”

Arthur takes a deep breath, sips his coffee. It’s too sweet, almost sickly; Eames would like it, he’s sure.

“Can I help you, Mr. Eames?” he asks.

It comes out colder than he expected, but Eames’ expression doesn’t falter. “I was in the area, thought I’d come say hello,” he says. “What have you been up to?”

His face is so eager and interested that Arthur has to look away. He hates this part: when they come back together, Eames smiling and apologetic, saying all the things Arthur longs to hear, effortlessly slipping past his defences and back into his life like he was never gone.

“Work,” Arthur snaps, pushing up from the bench. It puts him in Eames’ space and he quickly ducks out of the way before Eames can reach out for him. “And I’m working now. I don’t have time for your nonsense.”

He tries to walk away, but Eames is too fast. He fits a gloved hand neatly around Arthur’s bicep and tugs hard, hard enough that Arthur stumbles wildly into him. Eames uses the momentum to wind his hands into Arthur’s scarf and reel him in, their bodies pressed tight together. This close his smile is sharp and sly.

“Don’t lie to me, Arthur,” he says. “You never do any work when you’re in Paris. You don’t like working from home.”

Arthur feels his lips pulling back in a snarl. Eames knows him too well, always has, and the very thought sets him on edge. It just makes Eames laugh, breath gusting warm over Arthur’s lips.

“Calm down,” he says, and tugs a little at Arthur’s scarf, bringing him close enough that their noses brush, intimate and familiar. “Come on, love, let’s get you home before your nose falls off from the cold.”

Arthur opens his mouth to say _no_ and _leave me alone_ , but Eames kisses him quickly and steals the words right from his lips.

-

In his apartment, Eames takes off his coat and hangs it where it used to go: on the peg by the door, next to Arthur’s like a matched pair. He pushes his sleeves up as he comes into the kitchen, fabric bunching around the thick muscles of his forearms, and Arthur sees he’s still wearing the bracelet he bought when they were in Morocco, blue and gold wrapped tight around his wrist.

Arthur looks away, busies himself with putting on the kettle for the tea Eames will inevitably ask for. Sure enough, when he turns around Eames is pulling out a mug and the box of tea that he left here the last time.

“Thought you’d have thrown these out,” Eames muses as he puts it down on the counter.

Arthur doesn’t bother answering. Instead he heads for his bedroom, unwinding his scarf as he goes. Inside he pulls his sweater and shirt off, wincing when his body protests sharply. The bruising is still fresh, stark against the pale skin of his ribs and back, and they ache every time he takes a breath.

“What happened there?”

Arthur glances over his shoulder to find Eames in the doorway. He’s trying to be casual, slouching nonchalantly against the frame, but his eyes are sharp where they’re fixed on the mass of purple-blue on Arthur’s side.

“Last job didn’t go so well,” Arthur tells him, turning away to find a shirt.

He hears Eames move, the soft shushing of his shoes against the carpet, and then warm hands skim across his skin, warm and gentle. Arthur tries not to tense, but when Eames presses a soft kiss to his shoulder he knows he hasn’t done a good job.

“Easy, love,” Eames murmurs. “I promise I won’t poke them.”

Arthur snorts. “Like you could help yourself.”

Eames smiles against his skin. “I do have some self control,” he says, but his hands are already cupping the curve of Arthur’s ribs, fingers pressing down hard.

It hurts like hell, but Arthur can’t help the way he sags against Eames like his strings have been cut. Eames catches him, folding him into the curve of his arms, and at the same time pushes forward until Arthur’s sternum hits the sharp edge of the drawer, the pain radiating out in waves that leave him gasping for breath.

God, he’s missed this: Eames taking control, pushing him to his limits, taking him out of his mind, taking everything he has to give. But at the same time, he hates it; he hates that Eames knows his weak spots, knows how much he wants to be pushed to breaking point, how much he craves it.

“Eames,” he groans. He’s starting to get light-headed, floating on the endorphins, and it makes hard to decide if he wants to lean into Eames or break away from his hold. “Eames, what –”

Eames shushes him, hands still digging in sharply as he leans in to press his nose behind Arthur’s ear. “ _Arthur_ ,” he purrs in the tone that never fails to make Arthur weak at the knees; “Come on, love, let go.”

Arthur can feel Eames’ hand creeping stealthily across his stomach, and he thinks of how easy it would be to give up, to drop his head back onto Eames’ shoulder and surrender to him. Then he thinks of what comes after: a few weeks of Eames sleeping next to him at night with his hand possessive on the back of Arthur’s neck, then waking to an empty bed and an endless wait to see if Eames will come back again.

“Eames, enough,” Arthur grits out.

He throw an elbow back hard enough that Eames’ grip on him loosens, and Arthur uses the break to turn, shoving at Eames until there’s a space between them that feels more like a gulf than ever before.

“What?” Eames asks, tone concerned. “What’s wrong?”

He tries to step forward but Arthur holds up a hand to ward him off. “I can’t do this with you,” he says, and is surprised to find that his voice is quiet and sad. “Not again. Not if you’re going to leave.”

A frown inches its way onto Eames’ face. “I’m not leaving.”

Arthur just shakes his head. “Not yet.”

This time when Eames steps in, he ducks Arthur’s outstretched arms and pins him against the dresser with hands and hips. His face is angry, eyes hard.

“I’m not leaving,” he repeats. When Arthur purses his lips disbelievingly, Eames shakes him so hard the wood beneath them creaks and cracks under their weight. “For fuck’s safe, Arthur – why can’t you believe me?”

Arthur doesn’t answer. They both know why: Eames is a conman, a liar right down to his very bones. It is all he is and all he’ll ever be. They’ve been here too many times before and it always ends the same way, with Arthur in an empty apartment with nothing but reminders of what came before.

They both stare at each other, silent and accusing, until finally Arthur drops his chin to his chest and takes a deep, steadying breath. “Enough,” he says quietly. “Enough, Eames. No more.”

Eames’ lips curl like he wants to bare his teeth, but he moves back far enough that Arthur can no longer feel the heat and press of his body. “Fine,” he snaps; "Tell me to leave then, if that's what you really want.”

Arthur lifts his head, watches Eames watch him. In the other room the kettle is whistling, a piercing shriek, but Arthur can’t look away from Eames and the, blinding, heartbreaking blue of his eyes. He feels something inside him collapse, give in.

“I fucking hate you,” he says, and leans up to kiss Eames so he doesn’t have to think any more.

-

Later, Eames raids the fridge and puts together an omelette. He uses the last of everything: the eggs, the spinach, the tomatoes and mushroom, and Arthur quietly resigns himself to going grocery shopping before the week is out.

He sits himself at the island and watches Eames at the stove, fussing about with the pans in nothing more than his ugly paisley boxers. He looks like he belongs here in Arthur’s kitchen, in Arthur’s apartment, and it makes Arthur’s heart clench in his chest.

“How long are you staying for?” he asks quietly, eyes on the way Eames’ muscles shift beneath his skin.

Eames shrugs. “A while,” he says flippantly. He turns, two plates in hand, and sets one in front of Arthur with a thud. “Here, eat up.”

Arthur pokes at his food. After the first job they ever worked together, he and Eames went to some shitty diner and Arthur had ordered the biggest omelette the chef could make. Eames has never forgotten, no matter how much Arthur wishes he would.

When he looks up, Eames is watching him with those sharp eyes. “Cheer up, darling,” he says. “I told you I’m not going anywhere.”

“Yeah,” Arthur says, turning away; “Sure.”

Eames makes a frustrated sound and pushes his chair back with a squeak. Arthur watches him out of the corner of his eye as he cautiously moves towards Arthur, steps up behind him. His hands, when they fall on Arthur’s shoulders, are a suffocating weight.

“I mean it,” Eames says. “You trust me, don’t you?”

If he notices the way Arthur stiffens, he ignores it. Instead he digs his fingers in deep to knead the tense muscles, and Arthur tries not to flinch beneath his hands. With Eames this close he can barely think, can barely breathe. He folds his hands neatly on the counter and tries not to shake out of his skin.

“What the hell do you want from me?” he whispers.

Eames’ hand slips down to his neck, fingers curving under his jaw, and he tilt Arthur’s head back slowly.

“Nothing, love,” he murmurs, “Nothing at all,” and he leans in to bite at Arthur’s lips until all his protests fade away.

-

By March Eames is gone again, vanishing as winter’s chill gives way to the dampness of spring. The morning he vanishes, Arthur looks out the window to find that it’s raining, Paris painted in shades of grey, and he wonders if Eames will be back before the flowers in the Tuileries start to bloom.  


End file.
